


A Conversation with Sam

by To_Each_His_Own



Series: Conversations [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Castiel/Dean - Freeform, Dean is an Idiot, DeanCas - Freeform, Destiel - Freeform, Ficlet, Gen, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Sam tries to be a good brother, mentions of Castiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-11
Updated: 2015-11-11
Packaged: 2018-05-01 02:57:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5189495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/To_Each_His_Own/pseuds/To_Each_His_Own
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>By now Dean knew exactly how these things would go. He'd sit down, beer in hand, and Sam would stare at him like a freak until Dean said something biting and sarcastic, Sam would try to convince Dean he was in love with Cas, something he already knew,  Dean would drink, and Sam would inevitably storm out in one of his infamous, overly dramatic bitch fits. And the cycle would repeat itself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Conversation with Sam

This wasn't how things were supossed to go. Dean was the big brother. Okay, well, he was the _older_  brother. Sure, he may not have been as tall as Sam, but damn it, he was big where it counted and that was all that mattered. He took care of Sam. Dean was the one who went to Sam when he knew his little brother was having problems. Dean was the one who told Sam to man up and face them head on. He _gave_  advice. And he sure as hell didn't take it. And yet, there went Sam sticking his big nose (and even bigger hair) in places it didn't belong. And Dean's love life was one of those places.

But for the third time this week, Dean found himself face to face with Sam in some sort of cruel parody of an intervention.  By now Dean knew exactly how these things would go. He'd sit down, beer in hand, and Sam would stare at him like a freak until Dean said something biting and sarcastic, Sam would try to convince Dean he was in love with Cas, something he already knew,  Dean would drink, and Sam would inevitably storm out in one of his infamous, overly dramatic bitch fits. And the cycle would repeat itself.

Which was why he wasn't surprised to see Sam already at the table of their dingy motel room, waiting. Boy, this was going to be _just fucking peachy_. He headed over to the small refrigerator and pulled out the beer he knew he was going to need.

Sam rolled his eyes. "Really, Dean? It's like 11 in the morning."

"Yeah, well, I'm sure it's 5 somewhere." He twisted the cap off the bottle, ignoring the sharp look Sam gave him and took a swig. And he waited. It was going to come eventually.

But it didn't. All Sam did was stare, a mix of anger, pity, worry, and something else he wasn't _nearly_ buzzed enough to even _begin_ to think about. Dean let out a long sigh and plopped down into the chair across from his brother. If he was going to fight with Sam he might as well be comfortable. 

"Why don't you take a picture, Sammy. It'll last a hell of a lot longer." Usually that would have been enough to elicit an eye roll, or at least an exasperated sigh, but he got nothing. All Sam did was continue to stare. 

"Okay, I'll bite. What did I do this time?" Sam let out a sarcastic laugh and shook his head. Well, that wasn't the reaction he was hoping for, but it was better than nothing. 

"I don't—I just," Sam sighed again. "Why are you doing this to yourself?"

"Care to enlighten, Sammy?"

"All you do is sit around and, and mope and feel _sorry_ for yourself. Then you drink half the day away, and I just don't get it."

"There's nothing to get—"

"Will you just _shut up_ and listen to me for once!" Woah, Sam was not playing around today. "Cas loves you, Dean. For some crazy, illogical, unfathomable reason he loves you, and I know you love him too—don't try to deny it." He added seeing the look on Dean's face. "And I don't know if it's because of some weird masculinity complex, or your martyr, self sacrificing bullshit, but you refuse to do anything about it, and I can't sit and watch you throw away your one chance at happiness because you're scared. I can't do this anymore, Dean." Instead of looking at Sam, Dean focused on the yellowing, peeling wallpaper behind his head, at the cobweb in the corner of the ceiling, at a small fly making its way haphazardly across the wall, back at the peeling wallpaper, anywhere other than at Sam's shame-filled face.

If Dean was a better man, if he was a better brother, after seeing the pain he was causing Sam, the way his shoulders sagged under the weight no one asked him to carry, the pure hurt and worry in his eyes that shone with tears he refused to shed because someone had to be the strong one in this, he would have gotten up and hugged his brother. He would have promised to change, promised to _try,_ promised to do _something_ other than ignore everything and drink until he could almost forget. But Dean wasn't a better man; he wasn't even a good one. 

"Well Sammy," He gestured at nothing and ran a hand through his already unruly hair." No one asked you to." And that was the moment Dean saw the light shut off behind his eyes—saw Sam completely give up on him.

And it hurt like hell.

"Okay Dean. Whatever you say." And Sam got up and walked away, leaving Dean alone with nothing but his shitty beer and an ache in his chest that it wasn't going to help dull. After a moment, Dean too got up, leaving the half empty bottle of beer he no longer wanted on the table. 

He had the stronger stuff in his room anyway.

 


End file.
